AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, even when I'm back, life is busy. If not more so. Apologies, apologies. I promise a sweet slice of fluff with a side of emotion very soon. As for today, I'll serve up a dish of adventure. Navigating the waters of a five year old story is difficult, but certainly a fun ride. As always, thank you for the patience and the comments. It means a lot!
Read on and enjoy, my friends!
Cheers,
-Mintermist
"Ippolito…no, no Ippolito!" The words chorused from Jester's lips, a despondent chant for the dead. The tumultuous lament arced in a tattered sob, clawing at his chest, his throat, his tongue. Each note was coated in brackish tears like an iron gale. Eddies of grief echoed through his torso in a series of reverberant pangs. His hands scrabbled in the dirt, clasping his friend. His fallen brother.
Ippolito's rich dark eyes stared blankly into the void of the night sky, ever-smiling lips agape. Slick with rain, a dark curl swooped across his brow, and the linen of his chemise was drenched with crimson and a thick coating of mud. The Italian's gleaming iron shortsword rested by his side. The carved handle was wrapped in thin leather strips, the edge depicting a rose and a thorn.
"God, be kind to my brother," Jester heaved a ragged prayer, brows furrowed in broken fury. The edges of his voice were raw and torn— jagged as the slash across his friend's chest.
"Jester—!" Jane's voice cut through the din, a scarlet shriek. A silver gleam whizzed past Jester's ear, embedding itself in the earth. Jester rolled on his shoulder, grabbing the fallen sword from Ippolito's slack grasp. He spun, twisting in the mud, sinews crackling. His icy gaze flickered across the camp, beacons in the chaos.
The blurred shape of a barrel-chested man hurtled through the disarray of the camp. His heavy frame collided with Jester's lithe form, ramming into him as easily as a bull through a field. Pale green eyes bulged beneath his pallid brow, contorted with frenzy and bloodlust like a grotesque carving. Dark stubble lined the jagged plane of his chin, and his rough fists pummeled through the air, connecting solidly with the young man. Jester gasped, reeling unevenly across the earth. Shock radiated in vibrant hues of pain across his shoulder, violent oranges followed by throbbing yellows, as the man landed another strike. Jester staggered, before dancing back. With an acrobat's grace, he pivoted, arcing around the brute and raising Ippolito's sword with trembling hands. The man guffawed, snorting like a beast, sending block-like fists flaming through the air.
Jester dove left, narrowly avoiding the uppercut. He stumbled, holding the sword higher.
"That's your best—oof!" A blow to the hand sent the sword spinning from his hand with a wicked snick. The gruff man moved like a cyclone, swift for his girth. Jester's eyes widened in blue panic. A pummeling fist arced through the rain, and the force of a tempest cracked against his skull with an iron-like thunk. The fool staggered, blurred bursts of light blooming before his vision, as his assailant landed a second heavy stroke to his chest, followed by another to his abdomen. A vice wrapped around neck, crushing the air from his lips. The solid mass of the man's knee forced the air from Jester's lungs in a virulent spasm. He gasped, wheezing for air as the brute beat him like a tabor.
"Get off of him!" Jane's voice was full of fire, burning somewhere beyond the haze of pain. His assailant gasped, his grip on Jester slackening. The youth slipped into the mud, throbbing with pain and eyes blinded by grime at the feet of the man. Above him, the gasp turned into a roar.
"You little BIT—!" The man's voice thundered, cut off with a howl of pain. His fists swung. Jane grunted, but the man moved quicker than her injured leg. Jester heard the girl shout, and something crunched on the ground with a cry.
"Jane!" He gasped, wiping the mud from his eyes. A shock of auburn lay sprawled on the ground meters away. The girl's face was contorted with pain, clutching her arm, an ugly scrape braising the side of her face. The man towered above, advancing through the mud with an ugly gleam in his eye.
Jester lurched forward with a cry, scrambling through the mire. He grabbed a stone and sent it through the air. It whizzed past the man's ear. Tremors of agony spiraled through his limbs as he slipped across the earth in a broken charge. The brigand turned slowly, a toothy smile breaking across his jagged lips, before sending a solid kick the boy's way. Jester's leg crumpled beneath him, sending him skidding across the earth. Rocks bit at his skin and scarlet splattered from his brow, spurting dark droplets into the sludge. The brute ran forward, grabbing him with a rumbling roar and threw him through the air like a broken marionette. He landed with a crash, sliding across the broken ground. Something crunched violently. Jester choked back a scream, eyes watering.
"Now. You mind your place, boy- ugh!" The man let out a howl, as something hissed through the air. Crimson exploded from his shoulder, an iron bolt protruding from the flesh.
"Get your damn hands OFF of him!" Someone shouted. Defiant as the dawn. Eyes, pale as a ghost, shone through the dark like aquamarine gems, as a golden blur of billowing hair and waving limbs burst from the periphery of the camp. A second arrow whirred through the air, slicing through rain and darkness like a beacon. It embedded itself in the man's arm. The brute grunted, stumbling with a cry.
Jester blinked away blood and rainwater, waves of pain rolling over his bones as he watched the scene unveil. The archer was quick, notching a third arrow. The thin wooden shaft flew through the air, grazing the man's ear. He turned heavily on his heel, eyes filled with animalistic pain and bloodlust. Like a bull, he charged towards the figure in a wild rampage.
The archer gasped, narrowly dancing out of the way. Slight and nimble, they pivoted, loosing a fourth arrow. It zinged through the air towards its mark. But with a quick turn, the man sidestepped the attack. His fist closed around the arrow midflight, snapping the thin wood in two.
Circling like a bear baiter, the man and the archer gamboled around one another. Waiting. Breathless. Gasping for air, spattered in grime, sweat and blood. The man lunged, fists swinging. One narrowly grazed the archer's temple, splitting the skin. The bowman staggered, but swiftly loosened an arrow. It connected with the man's thigh, slicing sickeningly through muscle and sinew. He roared angrily, his thick form skidding forwards in a wild descent.
The archer turned, withdrawing a silver dagger from their boot. With the flick of a wrist, it spiraled through the air. Jester's eyes widened, watching the metal blade turn through the air as though in slow motion. With a squelch and a shower of blood, the knife lodged solidly between the man's eyes. He swayed briefly, hulking form staggering, before he collapsed into the mud.
The archer stood, breathing heavily, before they turned and offered Jester a hand.
"Who?" He wheezed. "Is he d—…?" Blue eyes, mirroring his own, met his gaze. Jester's own eyes widened. Shock coursed through him. "You…how are you here?"
"Glad I could help, brother," Maia grinned. A trickle of blood ran down her brow. "Luck favours those who act. Now, let's go home."